Chapter I: The Indian Country (3)

In the course of an hour we reached the town. A large concourse of women and children followed at the heels of the party, and clustered like bees around the heavy waggons as they toiled along. We passed through the town, and fixed upon a small hill at about five hundred yards distance, as our camping ground. Accordingly the heavy waggons were drawn up; the tents were pitched around them, and the horses and oxen, being released from their labours, were sent off to a thick bottom of timber at a short distance, where the wild pea vines were matting together in the greatest luxuriance.

The village of the Otoe Indians is situated upon a ridge of swelling hills overlooking the darkly wooded banks of the Platte river, about a quarter of a mile distant. There is but little beauty or neatness about an Indian town. The lodges are built in the shape of a half egg. They frequently are twenty feet in height, and sometimes sixty in diameter. The roofs are formed of long poles, which diverge, like the radii of a circle, from one common centre. The ring of the circle is formed of upright posts, driven closely together in the ground, and projecting upward about five feet. These are interwoven with brushwood and the smaller branches of trees, and form the support of the outer end of the poles composing the roof, the interstices of which are also interwoven with twigs and brushwood. The whole is then covered with earth, and when finished resembles a large hillock. The town contained about seventy of these lodges, standing singly or in groups, without any attention to order or regularity. Within, they are capacious, but dark, being lighted merely by a small aperture at the top, which serves both as window and chimney. The fire is built in a cavity in the centre, directly under the hole in the roof, by which the smoke escapes after floating in easy wreaths about the interior.

As the lodges are very spacious, a little back from the fire there is a circular range of tree trunks standing like columns, and connected by timber laid in their forks, forming a support for the roof, which otherwise, from the great length of the poles that form it, and the heavy mass of superincumbent earth, might fall in, and bury the inhabitants. Around the wall of the building, are ranged cribs or berths for sleeping, screened from view by heavy mats of grass and rushes. Over the fire is inclined a forked stake, in the hook of which hangs a large kettle, generally filled with buffalo flesh and corn. This, to judge from its looks, is never removed from the fire, even for the purpose of cleaning it.

CHAP. XVII.

INDIAN HABITS.—THE ESCAPE.

We had been a week in the village, and had become familiar with all the antiquated gossips of the place. The old warriors would stop us as we lounged around, to listen to some sly joke, which, as in duty bound, we relished most highly; though the wit of it was for the most part beyond our fathom, as it lay hid in the arcana of their language. The old squaws would hold us by the button, and whine into our ears some lugubrious tale of misery, equally unintelligible. The children soon lost the shyness which had at first marked their conduct; they were continually hanging around the tents, teasing the black cook, or frightening the oxen. When not thus engaged, they were scampering like deer across the prairie, in the enjoyment of their wild games. Here and there, too, a knot were busily engaged in gambling away arrows, which they had received from their parents; discussing, with the most earnest eagerness, the fairness and unfairness of each toss of their competitor.

Our tents became the gathering place of the whole tribe, where they assembled to discuss the news of the day. Here they would light their pipes, and talk over the deeds of former times; of scalps taken—of horses stolen—of buffalo hunts, and of hair-breadth escapes from the Sioux and Osage Indians. All the incidents which tend to variegate the desultory life of a savage were here brought into review by the gossiping group; receiving their meed of praise or censure, as they deserved it. Among the rest they spoke high in praise of a young Indian, who stood at a little distance. He was leaning against a wheel of one of the waggons, gazing, though with an evident air of abstraction, upon the group collected round the fire. He was scarcely twenty; yet he was already a brave, and stood high among the older warriors. A long feather hung from his scalp-lock, and was his only ornament. A blanket was thrown loosely over the lower part of his body, and was his only covering. Among various things related of him, was the following:—

A few weeks before our arrival at the village, he was returning one afternoon from an unsuccessful hunting excursion, which had taken him to a great distance from his home. The crimson disk of the sun was scarcely visible above the tops of the prairie hills. The burning heat of a hot summer’s day was mellowing down into the mildness of a July evening, and, one by one, the ravens and vultures were winging a steady course towards their roosts in the thick forest skirting the Missouri.

The Otoe had yet twenty miles to travel, and it would be nightfall before he could reach his village; but he would not push his generous steed, which was already much fatigued. He, therefore, rode slowly across the prairie, occasionally chirruping to the horse, or humming some Indian song.

Suddenly his quick eye was caught by the appearance of a black speck, which rose over the edge of a distant hill, between himself and the setting sun. In a moment after, the whole figure of a mounted Indian emerged to view, followed by four others also mounted. They did not observe the Otoe, but continued riding along the top of the ridge, in the same direction with himself. Supposing them to be some of his own tribe, he checked his horse, and raised a loud whoop to attract their notice.

At first they did not hear him, but a second shout, raised at the full pitch of his lungs, brought them to a halt. A short consultation seemed to take place; after which they rode slowly and carelessly towards him, as if they by no means intended to hurry themselves in obeying his call. As they were some distance off, he dismounted from his horse, laid his rifle in the grass in front of him, and, lighting his pipe, prepared to smoke until they should reach him. He lay intently watching them as they drew nearer. He, however, soon discovered, from some peculiarity in their dress, that they were not Otoes, but, as he supposed, Kanzas, who were then at peace with his tribe.

Fearing nothing, therefore, he continued lolling on the grass and smoking. As they approached still nearer, their cautious movements awakened suspicion, and he began to doubt their being Kanzas. Raising himself, he sat earnestly watching them with every sense on the alert, though he continued to smoke his pipe with apparent tranquillity.

He now observed that they gradually separated, as if their object was to surround him as he sat. Another glance showed that they were Osages, the deadly foes of his tribe. Dashing his pipe to the ground, he bent hastily forward to seize his rifle. It was fortunate for him that he did so; for at the instant, a bullet, aimed at his heart, whizzed past him, cutting a deep gash in his shoulder. In an instant he sprang upon his horse. The Osage war whoop rang in his ear; but with that daring that never forsakes an Indian, he brandished his rifle in the air, and, raising his own answering war cry, dashed off like the wind. He had the start by only a hundred yards. Everything depended upon the speed and bottom of his horse; but he was a tried one, and nobly did his duty: hill and dale disappeared behind him. Scarcely had he vanished from the top of one ridge, ere his hoofs clattered over the top of the next. But his enemies pressed on at the same mad rate. The clang of their horses’ hoofs rang in the ear of the Otoe with a fearful clearness. Luckily they could not pause to take aim with their rifles. At two miles’ distance was a skirt of forest: it was growing dark, and could he but reach this he would be safe. His horse, however, was nearly broken down; he panted and staggered. The rider plied the lash with phrenzied fierceness; the generous animal taxed his strength to the uttermost; but nature was exhausted. Within a quarter of a mile of the timber he began to fail, when his rider sprang from his back and bounded forward on foot. A loud cry burst from his pursuers as they saw him abandon his horse; but there was little cause for the shout, for his speed nearly equalled that of their jaded steeds. He was within about a hundred yards of the thicket, when, finding that they could not overtake him, the Osages drew up and discharged their pieces. The bullets pattered among the leaves of the grove, but missed their mark. The Otoe turned half round, when on the border of the bushes, shook his rifle in the air, and, raising a yell of triumph, plunged into the thicket.

The advantage was now on his side, for the Osages dared not approach, lest he should fire upon them from his covert. They rode up and down for a time at a distance, vainly endeavouring to catch a glimpse of his figure; then returned across the prairie, contenting themselves with carrying off the deserted horse.

CHAP. XVIII.

THE RIVAL CHIEFS.—INDIAN FEASTS.

Besides the Iotan, there are two other chiefs, inferior in rank, and far less popular. It was amusing to see how jealous a watchfulness each held over the actions of the other—each afraid to take a single step in the transaction of any business whatever, lest it should give some advantage to his rival. They reminded me strongly of two belligerent cats, mounted on the top of some gutter, glaring in each other’s eyes, and growling deep-muttered sounds of wrath; but neither venturing to attack or retreat, lest by some unguarded movement, he should expose some unprotected part to the fangs of his adversary. The Indian names of these two worthies I have forgotten; but they are known to the trappers by those of the Big Kaw (or Kanzas) and the Thief.

This last honourable badge of distinction was bestowed upon the father of the present possessor; but in process of time the old Thief was gathered to his fathers, and the young Thief reigned in his stead. He inherited his name, his worn-out blankets, and so large a number of grudges and private quarrels, that, in acting as executor and revenging his father’s injuries, years had elapsed before he could fairly say that the debts of the deceased were paid off.

The young Thief had, however, now become the old Thief. His hair was silvered by age; and he had arrived at that period of life which old folks are apt to call “the years of discretion;” that is, he had passed the prime of his usefulness, and had reached that age when strong attachments are usually formed to easy comforts and chimney corners.

The Big Kaw is a short thick Indian, rather good-natured, but gifted with a large supply of mulish obstinacy, and a temper like gunpowder. Oppose him—flash!—he is in a blaze; the children scamper; the squaws scatter; the rabble vanish. None stay to listen to the outpourings of his wrath, unless it may be one or two old fellows, who are too decrepit to get out of his way, or are blessed with so happy a hardness of hearing, as to render it agreeable to them to be conversed with, even though by a man in a passion.

The family of this chief consists of several wives, and a son, who is one of the most intelligent young men in the village. He, however, is the very counterpart of the old man in disposition; and when the two get fairly excited, the village is in an uproar. If the quarrel is commenced in a lodge, the building is instantly vacated by the rest of its occupants, until the silence which reigns within gives notice that the storm has blown over. Upon these occasions, it is said that those who return generally find the old man looking very foolish, and the son very angry. From this it is suspected that the former is held in subjection by his graceless offspring. Be that as it may, the young warrior still retains a strong affection for his fond old father. Although, in his anger, he sometimes oversteps the bounds of propriety, and conducts himself in an indecorous manner towards him, yet, upon the whole, he is looked upon as a pattern of filial piety—particularly as he permits nobody to bully his father, but himself. The Thief was in every respect the reverse of his rival. He was tall and wiry—of that construction which denotes extreme hardiness of constitution, united with a great lack of superfluous flesh. He was calm and quiet in all his movements, and would sit for hours in the same posture, his eyes alone keeping watch. He slid in and out of our tent, with a noiseless step, which frequently caused us to be unaware either of his presence or his absence. We were often startled, when least expecting it, by hearing his deep sonorous tones at our elbows.

The Iotan chief is the lord paramount of the village. With that cunning policy for which he is noted, he contrives, by balancing the interest of the two inferior chiefs, to keep them so constantly engaged in watching each other, that they have no time to turn their attention to himself.

On the first day of our arrival, we were invited to feast with about half the village. The first lodge which we entered was that of the Iotan. We found him sitting cross-legged upon some cushions to receive us. Upon our coming up to him, he presented the commissioner with a seat next himself. Then turning to his wife, he called for the feast, which consisted of dried buffalo flesh, boiled with a large quantity of hard corn. The interior of his abode wore but a dull, dingy look. The rafters were almost invisible for the eddying clouds of smoke, lazily seeking the hole in the roof, which served for the chimney.

This old chief had divided his affections among five wives. They were seated in different parts of the lodge, engaged in pounding corn, or chattering over the news of the day. They were evidently under but little subjection. While we were eating with him, the old man took the opportunity to disburthen his heart. He let us into a knowledge of the miseries to which he was subjected from their caprices; and the difficulties which he found in maintaining a proper discipline where there were so many mistresses and but one master.

Upon leaving the lodge, we next visited that of the Big Kaw. He guided us himself through the intricacies of the town, until we reached the building and entered through its low funnel-mouthed door. We had scarcely seated ourselves, before we found that we had got into warm quarters. The lady of the house had not expected company, and was unprepared for visiters. There was evidently a storm gathering. I read it in her lowering eyes, and in the uneasy, stealthy look of the Indian. He made no parade, but glided across the building, and motioned us a seat, with a guilty air; then slunk upon a cushion, with the look of a man who would wish to pass unnoticed. Occasionally he cast towards his helpmate a deprecating glance, like that of a whipped dog. His eye seemed to say, “I know I was wrong in bringing them; but I beseech you to keep quiet now, and you may scold as much as you please when the visiters have gone.”

A bowl of dried buffalo flesh was at last placed before us: the viands being rather tough, drew forth some remark from our host, half facetious, half apologetic. By accident it reached the hearing of the squaw, who thought that it was intended as a reflection upon her. In an instant she was in a blaze, and opened her batteries upon the chief, pouring out one continuous torrent of invective. Hot-headed and irascible as he naturally was, nevertheless for a moment he shrank under it; and, if it could have been done with credit to himself, probably would have evacuated the field; but in the present case that was impossible; and to be thus lorded over by his wife, and before strangers, was intolerable. Though for a moment overawed by the attack, his touch-paper temper began to take fire. At first it only evinced itself by a few sulky shakes of the head; but at last it burst through all restraint, and sent back a fire as hot as was given. The war was furious for some moments, and apparently carried on with equal vigour on both sides; but at length the bursts from the chief grew fewer and fewer: he was evidently getting worsted; his lips grew closer—more resolved, and his look began to wander round the dwelling, until at last it rested upon a large stick which lay on the floor at a little distance. A glance of his eye called the attention of his wife in that direction. It is probable that she understood its meaning; for after a few sulky looks, and a few sullen mutterings, her words grew more and more rare, and at last ceased altogether.

We remained but a short time longer, and after visiting the lodges of several others, returned to our tents.

CHAP. XIX.

DOMESTIC GRIEVANCES.

Among the number of our daily visitors, were three old squaws, hideously ugly, and filthy in the extreme. Wrinkle upon wrinkle covered their faces, and layer upon layer of dirt covered the wrinkles. Their long, gray, uncombed hair, hung in thick, matted locks, reaching nearly to their waists; and each of their long skinny arms, with which they coaxingly patted us, resembled in appearance and delicacy the trunk of a grape vine. These old harridans were perfect nuisances. They were constantly lingering about the door of the tent, on the look-out for plunder. They seemed to possess the power of ubiquity; it would have puzzled Argus to keep track of their movements. They were shuffling around all day long, peeping into every hole and cranny. One of them even stole meat from the frying pan, while the black cook turned his head to drive off the other.

Come upon them when we might, they were always sure to greet us with a half-smirking, half-piteous look; but the moment we turned away, they were at their old occupations. They were so constantly at work, that there was some talk of appointing a person whose sole employment should be to keep a keen eye to their movements. They lived at our tent doors, and, for aught we knew to the contrary, might sleep there too; for we left them there in the evenings, and we found them at their posts before sunrise. Indeed, so constant was their presence, that the sight of one of them moving off towards the town was the signal for a general search, as they seldom made their disappearance without taking with them some article which did not belong to them.

They had taken a particular fancy to Jones, the black cook. This unlucky wight was yet young in years, and inexperienced in the ways of the world. He had a fond and foolish heart, and acknowledged that he always felt a sort of sneaking kindness for the other sex. When dwelling upon the subject, he used to open his eyes, until the small speck of a pupil was almost lost in the immense field of white, and exclaim, “I a’nt afeard of no man; but I can’t stand the wimmen.”

To the young urchins who intruded into his domains he was not so indulgent, but kept a keen eye and a long stick for their especial benefit. This, however, only subjected him to ten times more annoyance. They would pull him by the coat tail, or jerk his ragged pantaloons until they worked him up into a passion. Then their greatest delight was to be hunted over the prairie by the Black Bear (the name which he had received among them). He might as well have followed a cloud. They sprang like fawns over the prairie, scarcely appearing to rustle the grass in their flight. They played around him like swallows, until completely exhausted by his own lumbering movements, he was fain to give out, and return unavenged to his occupations. Woe to the unlucky urchin, however, who, having been once guilty, should venture at any subsequent time within his reach! A hearty cuffing would convince him that the memory of the Black Bear was more tenacious than his own, and would warn him in future to keep clear of so dangerous a neighbourhood.

During the whole of our journey from Fort Leavenworth to the Otoe town, Mordecai had kept his fellow-servants in a state of constant tribulation. He gave such bloody accounts of Indians and Indian murders, that they regarded death as almost inevitable; and, I suspect, would have deserted at the first opportunity, had there not been more danger in leaving than in remaining with the party. When, however, we had been received by the Otoes, and the danger was past, Mordecai forgot his tales of terror. He pretended a kind of fellow-feeling for the Otoes. He talked Creek to the old women, who were willing to understand any language, so that they might but remain sufficiently near the tents to get an opportunity of stealing. He regarded the children that hung round with a kind of parental affection, and thoroughly discountenanced the thwackings which Jones so liberally bestowed upon them.

When we were perfectly settled in our camp, the horses which he had driven were turned adrift with the rest. He then took upon himself the duties of cook, transferring to Jones the less honourable employment of cutting wood for fuel. He would stand by the hour, with a red flannel night-cap stuck upon the side of his head; his butcher-knife in one hand, and his arm akimbo, descanting upon the arduousness of the office.

He had a high opinion of his own importance, and made no hesitation in saying that he ranked next to the Commissioner in the estimation of the Indians; that Mr. Ellsworth was respected by the chiefs on account of his having charge of the presents. As for himself, that he was popular among the vagabonds of the village; for they had no hope of presents, and, therefore, were delighted to come in for a share of the tit-bits and choice morsels which it was in his power to distribute while cooking.

Notwithstanding the altered tone of Mordecai, and the cordiality of our reception, there was one individual who remained inveterate in his prejudices against them. This was the French boy Joe: he never spoke of the Indians without some qualifying expression of ill-will. Whenever any thing was stolen, he at once attributed it to them. Frequently, however, his loud vociferation on these occasions caused us strongly to suspect that he was the delinquent, and that this clamour of indignation was raised that he might escape unsuspected.

His sole occupation was to spread the bearskins at night, and remove them in the morning. During the rest of the day he strolled about abusing the Indians, cracking his whip, or hallooing at the stray curs who were skulking around.

“Mordecai,” said he, one day to that worthy, who was standing in the midst of a group of Indians, in his usual stately attitude, with one hand tucked in his side, while the other held a frying pan,—“Mordecai, dere is no good in having dese Ingens around you; dey’m all d——d rascals any how.”

Mordecai gave a self-satisfied smirk, threw a compassionate glance at Joe, then extending his arm with an impressive air, “Joe,” said he, “don’t abuse the Indians; it hurts my feelings—I’m an Indian myself.”

“Yes, a nigger von,” replied Joe, turning upon his heel.

It seems, too, that the Iotan was of the same opinion; for whenever Mordecai spoke of his Indian descent, the old warrior quietly shook his head, remarking, “that he had never seen an Indian with woolly hair.”

It was evident, however, that his contempt was engendered by seeing him perform menial offices; for, like all Indians, he had a great distaste for labour, and respected those only who, like himself, did nothing.

CHAP. XX.

A MAN OF THE WORLD.

A number of idlers usually assembled in front of our tents during the fine sunshiny afternoons, to sing their songs and smoke their pipes, and regale themselves by listening to the adventures of their neighbours, which they had heard recounted a hundred times before. Among them was a tall thin Indian, with a wrinkled, hard-looking face, and a head covered with a profusion of long knotty hair, which he occasionally combed by raking it with his fingers. He seemed as if he had been smoke-dried for a century, until his flesh had hardened into gristle, and looked as if further shrivelling was an impossibility. He had a very small, busy eye, which twinkled with an incessant play of humour. It overcame even the grave disposition of the oldest warriors, and surprised them into as broad a laugh as was ever known to proceed from the mouth of the most scape-gallows Indian of the tribe, or even from the broader mouth of that vociferous character, the Black Bear.

He usually made his appearance at the door of the tent a little after sunrise, and continued in its neighbourhood during the whole day, though he shifted from the fire to the tent door, as the process of cooking and carrying the meals within went forward.

His usual dress was an old buffalo robe, worn almost bare of hair; and in his hand he carried a long-handled pipe, as antiquated as himself. He was one of those poor but merry dogs, who are found in all countries—taking the world as it goes, laughing at care, and free from all of those disturbances which fret their fellow men. He had never held any property of his own, he had never burthened himself with a wife, he had never built a lodge to shelter him. He was a perfect man of the world, and supported himself by visiting his neighbours. The lodges of the whole tribe he looked upon as his own property; the children of the whole nation were equally under his charge. His bed was his time-worn buffalo robe; and the abode in which night surprised him was his usual resting place, until the next morning sun awakened him. He was a welcome visitor at the stately dwelling of the chief, and in the less noble though to him equally prized wigwam of one of the lowest of the town; for in wealth they were all superior to him, and he thought that a poor devil like himself, with scarce a tatter to his back, had no right to sneer at the goodwill of any individual, who, however needy, was better off than himself. Notwithstanding the apparent easiness with which he slid through the world, his life had not been without its spice of adventure. Nor had the lapse of fifty years flown over his head, without bringing in its train a host of those mishaps, both by “flood and field,” with which the history of a savage is ever teeming. These he was accustomed to relate in the different lodges, to the assembled group of old and young, with a degree of humour which completely enraptured the women, and rendered him a welcome guest in every dwelling in the town.

He was sitting as usual, one fine afternoon, at the door of the tent. After finishing his pipe, he related an account of his having been chased by a party of Sioux Indians, across the prairie which lay between the Elk Horn river and the Missouri, on his way to the Otoe Agency. After laughing heartily, the interpreter translated it for the benefit of the rest.

CHAP. XXI.

THE CHASE.

The Otoe Agency is situated upon the banks of the Missouri river, at thirty-five miles’ distance from the Otoe village. It consists of half a dozen rough buildings, tenanted by as rough inhabitants. The most of these are half-bred Indians, with full-blooded squaws for wives, and an immense number of mongrel children. The latter may be seen from morning till night lying on the ground in front of the agent’s dwelling, and basking in the sunshine, with that listless enjoyment which they inherit with their Indian blood.

Early one clear morning the Indian mentioned in the last chapter left the Otoe village on a visit to the Agency. After swimming the Platte, and fording the pure still waters of the Elk Horn, he strapped his time-worn buffalo robe tightly round his body, and proceeded onward.

As he was on a friendly visit, to gossip with his old cronies at the Agency, he had no weapon; but carried under his arm his inseparable companion, his pipe. As this pipe is destined to bear a conspicuous part in the adventure which is to follow, it would perhaps be worth while to describe it. The stem was of ash, about four feet in length, half an inch in diameter, and charred in the fire until it had acquired a dirty brown colour. The bowl was of stone, to contain the kinne-ka-neek[G], which an Indian uses as a substitute for tobacco. He usually carries it about him in a small pouch, formed of the entire skin of a young otter, musk-rat, or fox-squirrel.

[G] _Kinne-ka-neek_ is a substance used by the Indians as a substitute for tobacco. It is made by crushing to fineness the dried leaves or bark of the wild sumach. This is then mixed with plug tobacco, cut fine, and is smoked by them. The proportion of tobacco to sumach is about one fourth. The tobacco pouch of the Indians is always formed of the skin of one of the animals above mentioned. The head is left appended to it; and the bones, intestines, and fleshy substance are removed from the body through a small hole cut in the throat, which afterwards serves as the mouth of the pouch. These pouches are often highly ornamented, with stained porcupine quills, beads, and, if their owners can obtain them, hawks’ bells.

The route to the Otoe Agency lay across a range of steep, ragged ridges. The Indian sauntered slowly along. He had a whole summer’s day before him, and was never in a hurry in his movements. Arrived at the summit of a hill which commanded a wide prospect, he paused to cast a wary look around him. The country lay spread out at his feet. Here and there it was broken by small patches of timber and brushwood, which served to give relief to the otherwise barren appearance of the prairie. There was nothing to be seen wearing a hostile garb—not even a wolf. Notwithstanding this apparent security, his watchfulness never slumbered. He had been too often hunted and harassed by foes, to relax for an instant that vigilance which from necessity becomes a constant habit with an Indian.

He travelled for several hours, and his journey was nearly at its end. The tall, thick timber, which darkened the bank of the Missouri, was now seen raising its dusky outline above the summits of the distant ridges. The groves and tangled thickets were becoming more and more frequent, and every thing bespoke a near approach to that king of rivers, the mighty Missouri.

A smooth prairie, about two miles in width, alone separated the Indian from the groves in which the Agency was nestled. A few yards in front of him was a low hillock, between two thick clusters of bushes. He sauntered to the top, and looked around. To the left was a small clump of bushes, fringing the bottom of the hill; but beyond, in that direction, there was no object to break the spotless green of the prairie. It stretched far off to the northward, until its distant verge was mingled with the haze of the sky. To his right was another clump of thicket, which clustered at the base of the hill, and swept off to a distant ravine. At a short distance beyond this, a long line of lofty timber, rising above a crowded under-brush, stretched off through the prairie, until it joined the forest of the Missouri. All appeared clear of enemies. So, wrapping his robe still closer around him, the Indian was preparing to quit his stand, when his quick eye was caught by the quivering motion of a bush in the thicket at the bottom of the hill on his left. In an instant every sense was on the alert;—it might be a deer, or it might be a lurking foe. He paused, and watched in breathless silence. The bush was again agitated; the painted head of an Indian emerged from among the leaves, and the form of another was dimly seen crouching in the bushes.

The Otoe at once recognised them for Sioux, the bitterest and most powerful foes of his tribe. His loud taunting laugh, accompanied by the Otoe war cry, announced to the lurking savages that they were discovered. In an instant they sprang forth, and raised the well-known war cry of their tribe.

The Otoe fled down the opposite side of the hill, making for a thicket of bushes and vines at its foot. As he ran he grasped the stem of his pipe in one hand, and the stone bowl in the other. He protruded the end beyond his side, in such a manner as to lead his enemies to suppose that he was armed with a rifle, and carrying it at full cock, ready to be discharged.

His pursuers, to the number of four, followed at his heels, like a pack of hounds in full cry. They gained upon him, for age had stiffened his joints; but by dint of hard straining he gained the covert of brushwood, leaving them full two hundred yards behind. A shout betrayed their disappointment. The wary old savage now threaded his way, swiftly but with great caution, through the thick maze of bushes. He scarcely bended a twig or rustled a leaf, lest it should catch the observant eyes or quick ears of the Sioux, whom he could perceive lurking round, though keeping out of rifle-shot distance.

At last the motion of a large bush, through which he was endeavouring to force a passage, revealed his position. In an instant each Indian fitted an arrow to his bow, and stood ready to let fly his shaft the moment he could get sight of the game; but they were still careful to keep beyond the reach of the supposed rifle. At length they drew nearer, and stood upon the edge of a ridge, not more than a hundred yards off. An arrow could not be sent with certainty at that distance; but a bullet could. The Otoe suddenly raised his wild-looking head above the bushes, and levelled his pipe. A loud yell burst from the Sioux, and they darted below the ridge of the hill, beyond his sight, to escape the dreaded shot. The moment that they disappeared, the Otoe sprang forward and ran. He had succeeded in gaining several hundred yards through the underwood, when his route was again detected. He again raised his head above the bushes; his pipe was again to his shoulder, and pointed in the direction of the hostile group. Once more they disappeared beneath the ridge, and he pushed forward in his course. This manœuvre was repeated several times, till the Otoe came to where the thicket terminated, and was only separated by about three hundred yards of open prairie from the wooded bottom of the Missouri.

Seizing the moment of another dispersion of his foes, he burst from the bushes and fled for the timber. He had nearly reached it, when a loud whoop announced that his flight was discovered. His pursuers were obliged to force a path through an intervening skirt of brushwood. This gave him some advantage, and he gained the timber just as they were emerging from the thicket which he had deserted. After rushing rapidly through the underwood for a long distance, and after several turnings and doublings, he gradually lost all sounds of pursuit, and reached the Agency in safety, all glorious at having beaten off a war party by means of a pipe.

CHAP. XXII.

THE METAMORPHOSIS.

We had been attending a feast given at the lodge of the Iotan chief, and were returning through the town, towards the little eminence on which the white canvass of our tents was fluttering in the wind. As we passed one of the lodges, we observed a group of females in front of it, busily engaged in exposing to the heat of the sun a large quantity of shelled corn. This was done by scattering it upon a buffalo-skin tent, spread upon the ground for the purpose. One squaw attracted our attention, from her gigantic height; most of the Indian females being under, rather than above the middle size. As we approached her, there was a masculine coarseness in the features of her face which rendered her hideously ugly, and formed a contrast highly in favour of the group around her. We afterwards learned that this strange being, though now clad in the garb of a female, and performing the most menial of their offices, was in reality a man, and had once ranked among the proudest and highest braves of the Otoe nation. His name had once stood foremost in war, and in council. He had led on many an expedition against their noble, but bitter foes, the Osages. In the midst of his bright career he stopped short; a change came over him, and he commenced his present life of degradation and drudgery.

The cause of the change was this. He had been for several weeks absent upon a war expedition against his usual enemies, the Osages. At a little before sunset, on a fine afternoon, a band of Indians were seen coming over the hills, towards the Otoe village. It was a troop of way-worn warriors. They counted less than when they started; but their tale of scalps, and their fierce brows when they spoke of the death of their comrades, told that those comrades had not been unavenged. In front of them strode the stately form of the brave. He was wearied with fatigue and fasting; and without staying to receive the greetings of his fellow-townsmen, he hastened to his lodge, and threw himself upon one of the bearskins which form an Indian bed; and there he remained for the night. In the morning he arose from his couch; but he was an altered man. A change, fearful and thrilling, had come over him. His eye was quenched; his proud step wavered; and his haughty frame seemed almost sinking beneath the pressure of some heavy calamity.

He collected his family around him. He told them that the Great Spirit had visited him in a dream, and had told him that he had now reached the zenith of his reputation; that no voice had more weight at the council fire; that no arm was heavier in battle. The divine visitant concluded by commanding that he should thenceforth relinquish all claim to the rank of a warrior, and assume the dress and avocations of a female. The group around him heard him in sorrow; for they prided themselves upon his high and warlike name, and looked up to him as the defender of their hearths. But none attempted to dissuade him from his determination, for they listened to the communications of the deity with a veneration equal to his own.

After speaking with his own family, he made known his intention to the nation. They heard him gravely, and sadly; but they, too, assented to the correctness of his resolution. He then returned to his lodge, and took down his bow from the place which it had occupied, and, snapping it in two, threw the fragments into the fire, and buried the tomahawk and rifle which had often served him in battle. Having finished this, he washed the war paint from his face, and drew the proud eagle’s plume from the scalp-lock. From that hour he ceased to be numbered among the warriors of the nation. He spoke not of battle; he took no part in the councils of the tribe; and no longer raised his voice in the wild war-whoop. He had relinquished everything which he had formerly gloried in, for the lowly and servile duties of a female. He knew that his allotted course was marked out for him; that his future life was destined to be one of toil and degradation; but he had fixed his resolution, and he pursued his course with unwavering firmness. Years had elapsed since he first commenced this life of penance. His face was seamed with wrinkles; his frame was yielding to decrepitude; and his ever scowling eye now plainly showed that the finer feelings of his nature had been choked by the bitter passions of his heart. His name was scarcely mentioned; and the remembrance of his chivalrous character was as a dream in the minds of his fellows. He was neglected and scorned by those who had once looked up to him with love and veneration. He had the misery of seeing others fill the places which he once filled, and of knowing that however exalted he once might have been, and however they might have respected his motives, that he was now looked upon as one of the lowest of the nation.

CHAP. XXIII.

INDIAN DOGS.

There are no greater thieves in existence than the Indian dogs; not even excepting the old squaws, who have made it their amusement for half a century. With the last it is a matter of habit and practice; but with the former it is instinct. It is necessary for their existence that they should be at the same time accomplished thieves and practised hypocrites. They are never fed by their masters, who are always particularly careful to keep every eatable from their reach, their own appetites being generally sufficient to dispose of every thing of that nature. As far as I was able to judge, the only act of pastoral kindness which they ever exerted over their canine flock consisted in flogging them whenever a chance offered.

There is scarcely a lodge which does not patronise at least a dozen of these hangers-on, who, with all their thievishness, are the most pious-looking dogs in existence. Frequently have I observed some gaunt, greedy fellow, who looked as if he had been dieted for a fortnight, steal with a meditative air into the building as if he had strolled in without observing what he was about, so much were his thoughts occupied with more weighty matters. But notwithstanding his absence of mind, the moment his look fastened upon any article of food, a change came over him. The air of abstraction passed away; every latent faculty was called into play; and his eye fairly blazed with a concentration of thievish longing. Then, with a fixed gaze, but with an indifferent, lounging step, he would sidle towards the object of his wishes, waiting only for a favourable opportunity to seize his prize, trusting to fortune to make good his retreat. But should he at that moment catch your eye, his flashing, eager look instantly disappeared, and was succeeded by a meek, deprecating, and unpretending slouch, which seemed to beg that you would not place any improper construction upon his actions.

It was not long before it became known to these gentry that a band of strangers had arrived among them, who were as yet unacquainted with their evil practices. Accordingly they deserted the town, to linger around our tents. The first day was one of jubilee to them, and truly exemplified in us the scriptural saying of “certain men fell among thieves.” But we soon became initiated into their customs, and removed from their reach every thing which we apprehended might be in the slightest degree palatable, or even digestible.

There appeared to be a most cordial hatred existing between them and the old squaws, who, above all things, detested opposition in their line of business, and were unwilling that any interlopers should come in to assist in carrying off a share of those spoils which they considered their own peculiar property.

Among the number of our canine visiters were two who seemed to carry on a co-partnership. The one was a little rakish-looking dog, of a dirty white colour, with pinkish-green eyes, who had quite a buckish way of carrying his tail. He was a mighty pragmatical, self-important little body, and was apparently endeavouring to pass himself off for more than he really was. He ranged between the gentlemen dogs and the rabble dogs of the village. There was a swaggering, self-important air about him, which reminded me strongly of those individuals of the human kind, who are generally to be found in all places attempting to hide their own natural vulgarity under a great show of dare-devil rakish gentility. The boon companion of this dog was his reverse in every respect. He was a lean, shaggy fellow, with a drooping slouch to his tail, and quiet pensive expression of countenance. No one would have suspected him of being the greatest thief in the village; yet such he was, and as such his approaches were most thoroughly discountenanced by all the old squaws, who looked upon him as a most formidable rival. He never attempted to resist their attacks, but fled howling away at the slightest appearance of danger, though half an hour would not elapse before he was as busy as ever. We found that in stealing he far excelled his companion, who made ten times as much bustle in carrying off ten times as little, and who was frequently left to receive the share of punishment due to both.

They continued together for several days. But at length the partnership dissolved, and each went on to steal for his own private benefit. Many were the sly bits which disappeared, and great was the caution used by the occupants of the tents to keep out of their reach every article which they thought would be acceptable. They continued their visits for several days after their real character had been discovered. But having been detected in the act of dragging off a large bag, which contained some twenty pounds of bacon, and having been several times flogged for their evil practices, and finding that the party had now grown quite cautious of their provisions, they deserted us altogether—betaking themselves to the town, and leaving their places to be filled by other dogs, equally ravenous, but less experienced in this art of gaining a livelihood.

CHAP. XXIV.

INDIAN LIFE.

To dress and ornament himself with trinkets and gewgaws, is the delight of a savage. The glittering presents of the whites bear as strong an attraction to the warrior as to the female or the child, though his disciplined habits prevent those loud bursts of pleasure which escape unrestrained from them. Scarcely a day elapsed but a little group would collect before our tents for the purpose of ornamenting themselves. They were apparently very fastidious in their taste; for when hours had been spent by an Indian beau in laying on one streak of paint after another, and in ogling himself by piecemeal in a small scrap of looking glass, some defect would appear, and with an exclamation of dissatisfaction the whole would be rubbed off. The work would then be recommenced with unabated perseverance, until he succeeded in daubing and ornamenting himself to his entire satisfaction.

When the toilette was completed, a surprising change came over the young warriors. They would fling their blankets ostentatiously around them, and with a lordly air lounge through the town; looking first at one of the young squaws, then at another; and occasionally condescending to speak to some dirty-looking brother, with that patronising air which, in all countries, a well-dressed person is apt to assume in conversing with a ragged acquaintance. When they had finished their perambulations, they would mount upon the top of one of the highest lodges, and stand for hours to be gazed at by the different idlers; a term which, in truth, might be applied to the whole of the male portion of the town.

In war and in hunting there is no being more untiring than the Indian. He will spend days and weeks in search of an enemy. If in the course of his travel he meets with a strange track crossing his path, his journey is at an end, until he has satisfied himself whether it is that of a friend or a foe. If it is ascertained to be that of an enemy, and if there is any prospect of gaining a scalp, the main pursuit gives place to this. He follows upon the trail, rapidly and surely, and nothing is left undone to insure the successful accomplishment of his purpose. He endures fatigues of all kinds; fasting and peril are unheeded by him; he has but one aim: it is murder. There is but little chivalry in the Indian warfare. The pursuer steals like a snake upon his foe. He gives him no warning—no opportunity to resist his fate. Often the death-scream of the victim is simultaneous with the crack of the rifle that gives him the first notice of a foe.

In peace, and in his own village, the Indian is a different being. He lounges about listlessly; he will sit for hours watching the children at their games; or will stop at the different lodges to hear the floating rumours of the town. Sometimes a knot of five or six will gather together, for the sake of talking over their own domestic grievances, and abusing their wives behind their backs. Others will assemble in the prairie, and relate to the young men their exploits in battle; their success in hunting; the deeds of the different noted men of the village; always winding up with the injunction of, “Go thou and do likewise.” At a little distance from these, a single warrior may be seen lolling in the grass; warming himself in the sunshine, and drawling out a dull sleepy song, with an air of the most perfect indifference to all things, past, present, and to come. Further on, two or three may be observed strolling along the summits of the different prairie hills, and apparently keeping watch over the neighbouring country.

In war an Indian is all activity—the creature of excitement; but there is not a more listless being in existence, when this grand object does not call into play the latent energies of his nature.

CHAP. XXV.

THE INDIAN GUARD.

During our stay at the village, the crowd of visiters and pilferers increased from day to day. The chief, therefore, stationed one of the warriors at the encampment to keep off idlers and intruders of all descriptions, and above all to have a keen eye to the movements of the dogs and old women. At the same time he took occasion to let us know that though the warrior had been selected by himself, his pay would be expected to come from the hands of the Commissioner. On the following morning the guard made his appearance, and prepared to enter upon his office. He was tall and thin, with a shaved head, and a body highly painted with vermilion. He wore, or rather carried with him, a dirty blanket; which, with a small piece of blue cloth around his hips, and a ragged pair of mocassins, completed his dress, and the whole of his worldly possessions. Like most men in office, he began to hold his head higher than the rest of the world, and to look with a patronising air upon his former cronies. He forthwith commenced the discharge of his duties, with that assiduity which fully verified the trite but true proverb, “a new broom sweeps clean.” He routed the droves of vagabond children. He hunted the old squaws over the prairie, till nothing in the shape of a petticoat dared venture in the neighbourhood. And a perpetual whining and howling of curs, accompanied by the hearty thwacks of a cudgel, informed us that this portion of our visiters had also been treated with all the respect due to so numerous and busy a community.